It's All Coming Back Now
by guineapigkisses
Summary: Dean hated himself; not like he really tried to hide it, though. He was willing to do anything to destroy himself, and hey, if it gave him a rush and made him feel good in the process, then why not? TRIGGER WARNING: Bulemia.


**Yeahhh... So I should really be writing my claims on The Industrial Revolution right now, and I know I'm overdue for a new chapter on "It's All Your Fault," which I guarantee, lovelies, is coming soon. **

**Anyway. I happened to have "Jump the Shark" playing in the background tonight and for some reason felt compelled to write this, so I hope you enjoy. Set in season 3 or 4, though timeframe isn't exactly relevant. **

**~Technicalities, Legalities, and other important shit~ **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Supernatural. Kripke is a god, I am merely a human who worships the things he created. **

**Warnings: Swearing, though if you know me and my stories at ALL you should take that as a given by now. **

**(Trigger) Warnings: Graphic bulemia, self-hatred**

**Shoutouts: Dylan, I love you and don't know what I would do without you. Simple as that, man.**

* * *

"Breakfast?" Was what Dean asked every morning. "Come on, I'm starving." he would say. It was the same story every day, no matter where they were staying, no matter what the case was. The exact same story. Getting up in the morning, most of the time before Sam, taking the first shower and then waiting on his brother to get up and get his ass ready so they could go get breakfast.

Only partly because he was hungry. That was only ever the half of it these days. He ordered whatever he wanted, side of this, extra of that, it didn't matter. Whatever he wanted, it was only temporary. It was just a game he played with himself, really. Because no more and no less than ten minutes later it was coming back up into the toilet.

Why did he do it, he wondered sometimes. Why did he do this to himself? Why did he hate himself this much, that he punished and tortured himself more than anyone else ever had, even John? Maybe that was why. It started out that way. It had started out as pain and punishment, given out and taken by himself. It wasn't about just that anymore.

It felt _good_. The fingers down his throat, pressing and pushing down, working against his own body. The way his heart sped up as he gagged and gasped for breath after, the way his eyes stung and watered involuntarily, the way it took his breath away.

It made him feel _alive_.

That's what it's all about, then, right? He didn't give a damn about his weight. He wasn't some chick-flick celeb with body issues, hell, he knew he looked great when a prostitute wanted to give _him_ money. That didn't mean he loved himself. It just meant he hated himself in different ways.

So there they were again. Sitting in a diner in a shit town hunting down some unholy son of a bitch, discussing lore over coffee and bacon. Just like every day. White-knuckling his way through coffee, growing more tense by the moment, eyeing the bathroom door. It'd been too long for him. He hadn't been able to get a chance to do anything yesterday, hadn't been able to get away to where Sam wouldn't hear. He was getting edgy.

He set down his now-empty coffee cup and took his last bite of toast, shaking his napkin off onto his empty plate, "Gotta hit the head, be back in a minute." he said, throwing some cash down on the table on the off chance that the waitress came by while he was gone. Sam almost seemed reluctant to let him go when he looked up from the research in his hands, but he simply nodded all the same and looked back down at them.

Dean couldn't run to the bathroom fast enough. He made sure to check all the stalls first; he didn't mind waiting someone out, but goddamn it got annoying. Luckily he was on his own then.

It was almost a calming ritual to him, closing the stall door behind him, locking it, getting down on his knees, fists resting on his thighs. As he took that last deep breath to settle himself, a feeling that he never really got used to, he unclenched one fist and brought two fingers to the ready.

You could see where his knuckles were taking the wear, all the times of scraping and gritting against his teeth doing this, the Russell's Signs were starting to get more than noticeable. For once he was thankful for their lifestyle; it was a scar, it was a callous, it was from a bar fight, it was anything but what it really was. And it worked.

In a violent strike, he jammed those two fingers down his throat, and was almost immediately rewarded. At first it had been difficult to train himself, it took a few tries, it took a few different times to get used to it and know exactly what to do. But he learned, and hey, he was a seasoned expert now.

There was breakfast again, in a gray-yellow, disgusting looking sludge in the toilet in front of him. He was gasping for breath, because he tended to take a few as possible during this, still dry-heaving, nearly sweating.

And he'd never felt better.

Fingers down his throat one more time, because he could always squeeze one more out if he really wanted or needed to, his throat burned as he gagged, finally leaning back against the stall door as he kicked the flush handle with his boot. Mission accomplished. Now to revel in it for a minute or two before he went and faced Sammy, and he still needed to clean himself up. He felt good, great, amazing. He felt absolutely wonderful.

Sam, however, who had been standing against and guarding the door for the fifth day this week had never been more afraid.


End file.
